


I.

by midinvaerne



Series: The Fragmentation of Splintering Steel [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, One Shot, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8180884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midinvaerne/pseuds/midinvaerne
Summary: The forests of Kaedwen, near Kaer Morhen





	

Grovel underfoot, the rain could still be smelled in the treetops and slender blades of grass, although the dark grey skies were finally parting. Early morning, fresh, and cool to a bite. Every breath was a swallow of cold water, and a little hard to take down; there was no sunlight that day, only a constant wind sweeping down from the mountaintops and filtering through the emerald-crowned branches to crash against the walls of the fortress. It came in surges, sweeping fallen leaves south with an ardent dedication. Slowly, the dark bellies of clouds, heavy with promises of more rain to come by evening, swirled and moved in the direction of the wind. 

The path was only a narrow ribbon, parting the woods like a single flawless seam in fabric when it meandered, leading over moss and fallen trees. A thin trail best remembered well and never torn out of memory; to make a misstep could mean an injury both to the body, and to the confidence. 

He propped himself up with his hands, wiping the tears somewhere away, to his hair, out of sight; an unseen rock, nothing more. The mountains were singing their quiet ballad of the seasons and the wind, and they sang of mornings already passed and yet to come; their whispering voices mingled with the trees gently, a bird chiming in with a high-pitched trill every now and then.

A raven cawed two, three times before spreading its wings and taking off.

Under the trembling leaves of ferns and undergrowth, a glossy black beetle skittered over the line of beaten earth, worn rugged from dozens of feet that passed over its surface every day. A large number of ants crawled up one of the tree-trunks, disappearing in tufts of moss that grew over its bark in many of the deep crevices it was riddled with. Beads of water still glimmered on the tips of many leaves, covering the ferns and lingering on the threads of cobwebs. 

  


He drew another long breath in, steadying himself. Dusted the dirt off his breeches, tightened the laces of his shoes and propped the collar of his jerkin up a little; it was an old and worn thing, and a little tight at the sleeves, but on a dreary day fulfilled its purpose well. Everything still smelled like rain; the air was thick with the earthy scent of the woods, moist grass and soaked bark, and it was a heavy one, too. 

It smelled of home. Just like the thick, ancient stone walls, sooty with a myriad of past fires round the fireplaces, the weighty wooden furnishings, the small room he called his own with a window looking down at the courtyard, and the valley…

“Geralt!” A voice echoed off the hillsides, shrill and piercing.

His ears perked up in a heartbeat, and he sprang back to his feet, tucking the disarray of his hair behind his ears.

“I’m on the way!”


End file.
